Doggy Days
by JulietGivesUp
Summary: Being the top alpha-dog of New York City, not to mention having the comfiest sofa in the back alleys Alfred had the life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness - and the freedom to pee in the streets whenever he wanted to boot. A decent owner wouldn't hurt though. And so, cue in seventeen-year old Arthur Kirkland, occupation: Punk Extraordinaire, Graffiti artist, and bitter Brit.Dog AU
1. Chapter 1

**Doggy Days**

Life was fairly easy for Alfred. Living in the world's second largest city, enjoying free hotdogs (and sometimes even hamburgers if he was lucky) in a nearby hotdog stand ran by a cheery Italian, and having the comfiest thrown out sofa in the back alleys at night, Alfred had to admit that he was luckier than most abandoned dogs in New York City. Yes, well, _of course _there were also those rich, overly pampered poodles walking around the block in their little doggy booties but Alfred would never dream of trading his freedom and gusto of peeing shamelessly anywhere than to live that kind of a self-centered, stable lifestyle. Sure, they had high class meals and annual trips to those ridiculous dog salons but at least _he _didn't have to go to the vet.

Yep, his life was good compared to those bitches. No pun intended.

Now, you'd think that the reason why he lived like this, being 'aloof' and all, was that usual sob story in which his owner had given him up and abandoned him in the streets of New York to fend for himself. While in the contrary, Alfred had abandoned his master himself. It was a great and happy day the night he finally escaped from his hell hole of a home. Alfred ran as fast as his powerful legs could take him, yipping, and inwardly cheering for his freedom with numerous onlookers gawking at the sight of a large golden retriever promenading in Fifth Avenue. He was lucky he didn't get hit by a car that day, or worse, having the cops or some animal catcher running after him.

Still, the dream of finding a new, better owner constantly prodded his mind. Alfred's dream was to be adopted by loving man, preferably a cowboy who owned a large ranch far away from the city. His ideal owner would let Alfred roam around the country side and herd up some cattle like in one of those western movies he watched sneakily behind a rundown theater. Yes, it was either that or to entertain the humans by becoming one of those Hollywood show dogs.

So imagine his luck when the blue-eyed golden retriever met seventeen year old, Arthur Kirkland. Granted the fact that Arthur was none of those things Alfred dreamed about in an owner.

It was cool evening, the beginning of autumn in fact, when Alfred first encountered the Brit.

Alfred was awoken by the sound of spray paint, the putrid fumes entering his very sensitive nose. The dog's eyes fluttered open and he leaped up instinctively to protect his territory. It wasn't uncommon that the neighborhood dogs would gang up on him while his guard was down for his precious sofa. However, Alfred would beat the hell out of them every time they'd try being the badass alpha dog that he was. Not even waiting for the intruder to react first, Alfred pounced on the suspicious figure a feet or two away from him.

There was a clatter as the stranger dropped the spray cans and uttered a surprised, "Bloody hell!"

Alfred's ear twitched and perked up recognizing the voice of a human rather than a growling of a fellow canine. He immediately withdrew his teeth and scrutinized the man under him. As a matter of fact, it was merely a boy, hardly a man yet from Alfred's standards. Still he'd have to admit, the guy was no ordinary, up to date human.

He had pale, blonde hair with the tips of his bangs dyed green contrasting his eyes which were the same color only permanently laced with sarcasm and unruliness. Not only that but he had quite a lot of piercings; one on his nose, two on his bottom lip, at least five each on both of his ears, and judging from his scowl there was probably one on his tongue. Alfred couldn't blame the boy for frowning and being so cross, after all, he would probably be too if he had those weird, shiny things on his mouth. They looked simply uncomfortable.

Alfred was about to forgive the stranger and make peace with his fellow rebellious brother when the douche bag shoved him off into the cold pavement. The teen angst was spewing out unearthly curses with his unfamiliar way of enunciating words and was animatedly making hand gestures. The blonde was talking so much and for so long that for all Alfred knew, he could've been narrating his whole life story. After a while, Alfred began tuning the boy out until he finally stopped talking and ended with: "….and after all that, I end up in this bloody American city ranting to a retarded mutt!"

_Now_, Alfred was no Smart Alec but he wasn't stupid – and he still wasn't over the fact that the dude pushed an awesome, lovable, hunk of happiness and joy (he was talking about himself, of course) mercilessly like shit. In return he barked: _"Yeah? Well at least I'm not a pathetic, teenager creeping around and vandalizing the city! I oughta tell the cops on you!"_

As expected Arthur, as the teen was later called, could not speak dog but that didn't mean he couldn't imagine a response from an animal. "Yes, I bet you're angry I called you a mutt but let's not lie about the fact that you _are_ one seeing as how repulsive you are to look at. Ha! At least, I'm intelligent and don't go sniffing other mutts' arses!"

"_You call yourself intelligent? You humans think you're so great. At least I don't go piercing my body for the sheer unattractiveness of it, and the fucking fact that it hurts like a bitch!" _

And that was how it went between them; barking insults back and forth without having a clue to what the other was really saying. You can imagine how ridiculous it would have been peering into the minds of Alfred and Arthur. To be frank, the two were just making up what the other was probably saying inside their heads and exploding into their own, senseless rants. In a way, it was probably a one-sided conversation.

"Well at least I'm not American!"

"_Well at least, I don't talk to dogs – wait, well yes I do, but I'm not a human so it's not weird to have a friendly chat with the pooches in the park. And at least, I'm an American, you… you… damn, what are you, kid?" _

After a while (and a lot of barking), Alfred finally had enough of playing Mister Nice Guy – dog, Mister Nice Dog and bit Arthur's outstretched hand. It was a simple chomp, but Alfred thought the British dude over reacted too much. He jumped back and started shaking Alfred off; so much to the point where the dog was nearly off the ground and had clench his canines tighter onto Arthur's hand to not fly off. As a result, the Brit started to shriek louder, trying to pull his hand from the mutt's slobbering mouth.

_Alright already, bro. I'm getting dizzy from all hullabaloo!_

Alfred spat out the hand, thankfully not coated with blood. However, the idiot started complaining instead.

"Ahhhh! Rabies! The sodding mutt has rabies! I'm going to die in a few hours, give and take. Damn it all! I haven't even done a gig or even showcased any of my works yet. And I haven't even gotten drunk yet either! If I'm going to die I could have at least been drunk or something. Blasted mongrel!"

Arthur kicked the dog and sprinted off with Alfred trotting after him, biting his heels.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Much to Alfred's displeasure, it seemed as though the conceited punk was in New York to stay. In almost every corner of the city, Alfred could anticipate Arthur there either showing off his mad guitar skills for passerby's money, or charging customized portraits of people, or selling street art, and heck, he even _tried_ dancing even though his movements were painfully sluggish and floppy-like. It was ridiculous to watch, yet people would throw bills for the fool anyway.

Either way, Arthur didn't care. In fact, he scoffed at his patrons and sent them self-satisfied smirks because in the end of the day (whether or not the things he'd do made him look like desperate fool) he still made _some_ money and was better off than most people who were financially sufficient, but miserable to the bone. And besides, he reasoned, it was all part of being a liberated teenager.

Alfred pitied the boy's self-respect.

It looked like he was willing to do anything (street performing and applying for odd jobs) to earn cash. The sad thing was, when he did happen to earn a few dollars; the punk would spend it on something stupid like alcohol or a new hair dye. _Talk about priorities._ Alfred supposed that adolescent human beings were high wired to do stupid things like that. The parents were just there to keep them in check, though it was hardly worth trying in the long run. Speaking of hair dye, in that particular day Arthur's hair was streaked with bright purple highlights.

The teenager was leaning up against a red brick wall smoking a cigarette when Alfred happened to run into him. He'd just finish a gig inside the club and after three hours of non-stop solos, the blonde was worn out. Not to mention cold and starving. It was one thing to binge on alcohol and be mentally satisfied; it was another to be full with real food. As for the chilly night, he'd expected just as much. It had been worse in England. At least it wasn't raining. Arthur snuggled in deeper into his black leather jacket for warmth.

Alfred wasn't doing any better. Unlike humans, he only had the thick fur in his back to keep him warm. Refusing to wear jackets and clothes was a social norm that every self-respecting dog must follow. Alfred couldn't fathom the reason why human owners force such things onto Chihuahuas and the like. Still, it was a tempting offer not to freeze that night. As Alfred was thinking about these trivial matters, the Brit finally noticed him and took on a cautious stance.

"It's you again, mangy mutt. You're looking as pitiful as ever," Arthur smirked blowing a cloud of smoke down at Alfred.

Alfred shook his head warding off the disgusting smelling smoke. Baring his fangs and growling inwardly, he prepared to pounce on Arthur, who was, however by now already running for his life as per usual their routine. Arthur was lugging a lid from a random garbage can and running with all his might from the gaining golden retriever. The garbage lid certainly came in handy as he found some time ago. Quite useful for shielding himself from the slobbering, seventy-five pound canine.

Usually, Arthur would find an open diner or a general store to hide away in and he'd be home safe behind the store's glass windows teasing Alfred who would have been waiting for him to come outside. However, it was very late that night, about three in the morning, when their little game of chase transpired.

As Arthur ran across the streets desperately looking for a shop to duck in, he somehow found himself in a dead end on the 'bad' side of New York. As luck would have it, there also happened to be a gang of half-drunk Italian-Americans just itching for a fight. There were at least six of them, one of which seemed to be of either Mexican or Spanish descent was clinging on and laughing heartily to a short, Italian brunette with a curl on the side of his hair. The brunette did not look happy at all and looked just about ready to wipe that grin off his partner's face when he spotted Arthur. The Spaniard and the rest of the crew turned to look.

"Well, well _mi amigos_, looks like blondy here ended up at the wrong side of town. Why don't we play with him a little bit, no?"

"Hmph, you're lucky this little punk showed up out of the blue. Otherwise you'd be the one getting it bastardo."

"Damn," Arthur cursed shrinking away from the group but they already had him surrounded. They pounced on him all at once, kicking and throwing punches as the two held him back as the ideal punching bag. Arthur tried his best to fight back but it was futile; one against six, older, drunk men. The stench of alcohol reached his nose and was so overwhelmingly strong that he felt as if he'd also drank some. He'd started to feel nauseated from the odor but he was surprisingly holding up well from the men's abuse. He had had a far worse beating that this from his older brothers after all.

Suddenly, the two guys holding him screamed and released his arms. Arthur immediately jumped back, escaping the bout. Alfred, more intimidating now that Arthur had ever seen him, was snarling at his previous captors. One of the brutes was clutching his leg, openly cussing in his foreign tongue.

"Hey! I recognize that mutt! He's the fleabag your stupid brother feeds all them hot dogs to."

"What the crapola is it doing here? Shoo, doggy! Get-a out of here you stupid dog!"

Alfred barred his fangs and continued growling. He recognized the Italian. Somewhere along the lines of… what was it… Lovino? Yes, yes, it was the same cranky Italian who shooed him away from Feliciano's free hot dogs. Said something about not making enough dough, whatever that means, Alfred mused. He'd been meaning to devise a sort of vengeance against Lovino but Alfred supposed that night was as good as any chance to do so. Lovino was _so_ going to pay for a whole week without hot dogs and hamburgers.

Alfred pounced in frenzy catching the man off guard as planned.

Arthur stared at the mayhem a bit frazzled before dodging a jab sent by one of the gangsters. It seemed as though Alfred got four of them preoccupied at once, biting and slashing blindly. It was odd seeing the dog actually enjoying himself, really more like playing with the tipsy fellows than attacking them. The blonde could easily picture him wearing a dopey grin, treating the brawl more as a game of wrestling.

Everyone was so preoccupied, in fact, that Arthur could have sneaked away and ran completely unnoticed. In a dramatic turn of events, Arthur Kirkland shook his head, picked up a lead pipe lying nearby, and saved his bruised pride from being one-upped by a cocky mutt. That, and Arthur calculated they had a good chance of winning since the men were intoxicated to the point where they were hitting one another now and were not carrying fire arms to possibly endanger his life.

The sun was just about ready to rise and screw the world again when the duo collapsed side by side, puffing cold breaths of air. The Italians had been hauled away by a tough looking German with Feliciano by his side waving a white flag and apologizing profusely. Arthur and Alfred were left in the alley exhausted, but not too badly bruised.

"Know what, mutt? I was completely wrong about you…" Arthur huffed watching his breath turn to ice vapors before fading into air.

Alfred turned to look at him, nose wet and warm despite the cold. The first rays of sunlight bounced off wonderfully onto his golden, yellow coat. Alfred's bizarre, cerulean blue eyes, so common on many Americans Arthur met, held a certain charismatic tone to them.

"…before, I believed you were just some retarded mongrel left to rot in the streets… however, after last night…I've come to an unexpected suspicion that you must certainly be…"

Alfred's eyes widened expectantly. In his mind, a tape recorder was playing recording this very moment of admiration, never once shown before.

"…without any doubt, the _real_ deal… a genuine, rabid, impulsive, _idiotic _mutt. Congratulations, mate."

Arthur held out his hand very seriously for a handshake.

And Alfred bit him...as per usual.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

If it was one thing a _sojourner _(totally _not_ a tramp or a hobo _at all_) knew, New York City wasn't any nicer of a place during the winter. To put it bluntly, it sucks living there with what all the frosty weather and grouchy people turning into complete assholes because they were forced out of their cozy beds to go to fucking work.

Take Arthur, for example.

That morning, Arthur's asshat of a roommate literally booted him out of their apartment complex, hurling his guitar case and paint materials five stories high onto the unsympathetic street below – six o'clock in the morning. You can imagine how that went.

If not, well… the guitar case landed spot onto a nearby car shattering the glass, the roof, and well… just about everything. It was a _good_ thing the car alarm was on. That way, it could alarm the owner _and_ create the loudest, irritating screech in the block to wake the rest of the town. Arthur made about a hundred people's morning just _that more special._

Much to Arthur's outstanding luck, the Swedish owner was a heavy sleeper and as such, he too was lucky not to wake up early in the morning to find his car a wreck. But that wasn't the end of it, oh no.

Remember Arthur's paint materials?

Yes well, don't forget, they fell five stories too. The paint cans plummeted down one by one like air bombs decorating _Lucky_ Mr. Sweden's mundane blue car. Neon colors: green, cyan, pink, yellow, orange splatters dotted the hulk of metal and glass formerly identified as a fancy Volvo.

Arthur hightailed on out of there faster than a turkey on Thanksgiving before the cop's siren started parading through the streets. He didn't even bother to salvage whatever was left of his belongings. Chances were his guitar and miscellaneous items were probably a wreck, not even worth a second look.

The Brit shrugged it off. He could care less for sentimental things anyways. He had bigger problems like recovering from his nasty hangover. _Bloody hell_, Arthur just wanted to sleep. He was tempted to bang his head against the nearest red brick wall and with any luck, slip into a coma – or unconsciousness (the second option was preferable) and never wake up to another crappy day. But no, the medical bills would be too expensive and his brothers could use that to track him to America.

Blast it all.

Slowing down into a jog, the young man fumbled his coat pockets for a cigarette. As his daily habit dictated, the lighter fluidly came next and a huff and a puff. He stopped trembling almost immediately, slumping down against the wall, feeling whole and somber again. Arthur blew a cloud of smoke and gazed solemnly at the dull, gray sky. He heard a door gently close and a little scuttling.

"Smoking is bad for you, mister. I know because my mommy says so!"

A little boy, around the age of six or seven, was standing a few feet away, an air of filthy innocence surrounding his chubby little pink face. The boy's hair was neatly combed, his silver framed glasses sparkling clean, his tailored clothes fitting and dare he say _warm _and _comfortable_, shoes polished thoroughly – a lad who definitely had class and by the looks of it spoiled from top to bottom by his _mum_. His hands were placed obnoxiously on his waist as if sending Arthur a preppy I'm-much-better-off-than-you impression. At least that's what it looked like to him.

"Piss off you little prat!" Arthur snarled and flicked the ash from the cigarette at the little boy. The brat recoiled and gave him a disgusted look as his overzealous mother led him away.

"Some people have no sense of courtesy! Honestly, _beasts_ like you deserve to rot in the streets for the rest of your miserable, uneducated life," the woman scoffed as they walked away.

Arthur rolled his eyes. He'd seen that look before, casted a thousand times and a billion more. He'd been part of _that_ kind of society, heck; he probably gave someone the same sickened glare sometime before this current lifestyle he was trying to pull off. Poor, empty, unfortunate beings too purged – too absorbed in their elite statuses to even bother with a soul.

His lips pulled up into a smirk reminiscing the time when he was a little boy holding that same inquisitive gaze, asking and criticizing his brother for smoking secretively out in the yard. Ten years and look at him now. Ears and tongue pierced, bloody red streaks on his once a upon a time oh so pure blonde hair, basking on the release of a cigarette in his fingers. Arthur started to laugh until his stomach's growling silenced him.

Boy, was he starving.

He searched his pockets for anything – a gum, a biscuit, bills, coins. With a bit of luck, he ended up with a big fat sum total of…three dollars. Thinking about it now, he kind of wished he didn't use all his cash up to pay for a sexy chick's drink in the club, or to buy his new hair dye and black eyeliner for that matter. Yes, he received quite a few looks going into the women's makeup section, purchasing a shit ton of _manly_ cosmetics. But it was all gone now thanks to his stupid Prussian roommate.

Arthur got up unsteadily and trudged to the nearest McDonalds which was predictably only five steps away from where he was standing.

"If this country isn't going to kill me, then its fast food probably will."

* * *

Not far from the fast food chain was an equally famished golden retriever scavenging the streets for something to eat. The peppy Italian migrated back to Italy for the winter and so Alfred's main food source was gone for the season. Man, what he wouldn't give for Feliciano's hotdogs and hamburgers. Heck, he'd even eat pasta if it was offered. Staying sexy fit with his shiny fur coat and irresistibly dashing looks (for a dog) was not easy to maintain without a proper diet.

The other dogs always wondered how Alfred was able to stay so sexy fit with a human fast food 'diet' everyday, but compare Alfred to those overly-dependent dogs and they were second degree to his canine-like charms. That's exactly what Alfred liked to repeat to himself as he burrows his nose in a garbage can prodding for left-over food the humans throw away.

This was his fourth or fifth garbage can that day and still no luck. The main culprits: _cats_.

_Very well, down to my last resort it is then. Desperate times call for desperate measures. _

A human emerged from behind a glass door carrying something mouthwatering inside a paper sack. Alfred didn't miss a chance and pounced on the man bestowing the lucky fellow with licks and his canine slobber.

He'd heard from the neighborhood pooches that humans went gaga for a couple of licks. Apparently, it was supposed to look cuter if you wagged your tale and looked at them straight in the eyes. This should totally be a piece of cake for him since he was such an amazing, handsome dog. The terrier from around the block said that he'd get rewarded a ton amount of treats just for sucking up to his owner. If _that_ gullible human fell for it, why not this one eh?

Alfred didn't expect the man to yelp in surprise and push him off.

"Filthy thing! I'm allergic to dogs, damn it. A-Achoo!" The Greek started into fit of sneezes spraying _his _filthy, disgusting snot at poor Alfred's direction.

'_Oh, so now I'm the unhygienic thing?' _the dog quipped. Still, this was a perfect opportunity…

Alfred grabbed the McDonalds to-go bag from the Greek in an attempt to snatch and flee with it, but the man was persistently holding on.

"No, stupid dog. This is mine! Get your filthy jaw off my to-go, you re-embodiment of Cerberus! Zeus will punish thee, fiend!"

'_Cerberus? What the fu-'_

"Bollocks! What the hell is going on here?"

'_Oh great. It's that kid again.' _ Alfred turned to Arthur, his gleaming teeth still fixed on the bag.

"This beast from the underworld hath stolen my food, King Arthur of the Britains. I am reclaiming th-!"

"Shut it, Heracles. Save that for the poetry meet at the Coffee Hub tonight, yeah? Oh, and kindly inform Gilbert that I have a copy of _that _disc from '08 and I sure as hell am gonna show it to Ludwig and Elizabeta for tossing me out of the apartment at six o'clock in the _bloody morning_."

"Yeah, sure thing Arts."

"Now as for you…," Arthur eyed the dog warily before striking it senseless until Alfred let go of the half-torn package. Oh, but it wasn't over yet. Arthur tackled Alfred down, momentarily giving his good ol' friend time to make a getaway with his unworthy meal.

The dog squirmed under him trying to escape its way out from Arthur's flimsy weight and it took a great deal of energy to keep Alfred pinned down for just even a moment. As soon as he was sure Heracles was out of sight, Arthur sprang off the dog. Alfred was growling at him menacingly.

"I guess I'm not at all surprised with what you've done but honestly…"

"Grrr." Arthur rolled his eyes as Alfred bit his hand as a routinely greeting nowadays. It was a wonder he wasn't foaming through the mouth yet from the dog's infectious bites.

'_This is none of your business, little boy. What would you know about living out in the streets starving to death?' _Alfred's growl reverberated in his throat releasing a sound similar to a motorboat. Arthur stared back at him unfazed with steely emerald eyes. The two studied each other for a moment, Alfred's cerulean orbs exchanged with Arthur's foreign hues.

Alfred withdrew hesitantly keeping his eyes locked on the human. A sack was tossed by Alfred's paws.

"Good lord, I know you're hungry too but that's not a reason to steal from strangers."

Alfred watched the teen walk away with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, a warm breath evaporating into the chilly air. He nudged at the contents of the McDonalds sack.

Inside was a half-eaten cheeseburger.


End file.
